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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24296818">Fair Folk</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual'>Neffectual</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fa(e)ted To Be [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arranged Marriage, Banshees, Bestiality, Geralt in tight clothes, Greg the Horse - Freeform, Humor, Intersex Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Sassy Geralt, Sort Of, barefoot Geralt, deer penis, faerie court, faerie knowe, genderqueer fae, mpreg mentions, probably other things I haven't noticed, really getting quite inhuman Jaskier, some fae stuff borrowed from Seanan McGuire's October Daye series, sort of??, spidersilk to be exact, the death of the author's shame, though Jaskier's not exactly male</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:48:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,319</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24296818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier's mum still wants to see him on the holidays, which means Geralt has to cope with fae court, which is, somehow, even worse than a regular court. For a start, it's hard to tell if the thing with too many arms and too many eyes is leering at him, or if it just looks that way usually.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fa(e)ted To Be [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>431</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirteenthesiac/gifts">Thirteenthesiac</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>At this point, I'm not sure if dedicating these to my wife is a gift or a curse, but I'm gonna keep doing it anyway!</p><p>Written to "everyone blooms" by The Front Bottoms.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There are some indisputable good parts to having Jaskier drop the ruse of being human, Geralt thinks, as he finds his way back to camp via the scent of magic, and knows Jaskier will be there, safe and warm and probably with food and a hot bath waiting, too. There’s warnings against accepting food from the fae, but Geralt has belonged to Jaskier for far too long to start worrying about that sort of thing now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s bleeding sluggishly as he makes his way to the edge of the wards, and knocks three times. Jaskier’s head pokes out of the curtain the ward makes in the world, and then a doorway opens up and Geralt staggers through, heading for the bath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I missed you too, dear heart, and I’m glad you’re so concerned, but I was perfectly fine without you,” Jaskier says, mock indignation colouring his tone in a way that tugs the very beginnings of a smile at the corners of Geralt’s mouth. “Nice to know you were thinking of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt ignores him and starts to strip off, wincing as a strap slides against a wound, and drops his armour and clothes carelessly by the side of the bathtub. It’ll all be clean by morning, any patches mended, swords sharpened, and the trophy head put under a ward to ensure it does not decay. In his darker moments, Geralt wonders if that’s what Jaskier will do to his body when he inevitably doesn’t come back from a hunt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was barely gone an hour,” he says, with an eye-roll, even as he settles into the scalding water with a groan. “Even you aren’t annoying enough to have found something to eat you in an hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s squawk of protest makes another hint of a smile flicker around Geralt’s mouth, even as he turns his head to watch his bard mutter darkly as he traipses around the destruction of their camp that Geralt has left in his wake. Every so often there’s the gold-blue shimmer of his magic, illuminating his face briefly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that Jaskier’s face has changed, exactly, just that he’s started to look less and less human, no matter where they are, and Geralt’s already dreading the day he has to ask the fae to wear a glamour into town. Since his mother decided that trying to get them to wed in the knowe was a good idea, and Geralt learnt Jaskier’s true nature, more of his fae nature is starting to show.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His teeth, for a start; they’re sharper, his eyes are too blue, and glimmer with gold where there should only be the reflection of light. He prefers to eat his meat rare, and will crunch the bones if he isn’t paying attention. Once, Geralt saw him pluck a small songbird out of the air and eat it whole. The guilt he wore when he saw the Witcher watching him was mostly pretence, as he plucked a feather from his teeth and grinned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the bath, Geralt lets himself luxuriate in the hot water, scented ever so slightly with herbs, something soft and mellow, and watches with only slight perturbation as Jaskier fusses a little more with before he’s at Geralt’s side, winding a hand into his hair and grimacing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” he says, with the air of someone talking to a disobedient hound at the hunt, “are disgusting. What did you do, roll in it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Jaskier, despite all evidence to the contrary, I rolled in cave troll,” he mutters, but shifts into the hand in his hair anyway, butting up into Jaskier’s hand like a cat. “Sometimes they explode - ow, fuck!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Jaskier says, looking contrite, at least, at the white strands wrapped around his fingers. “I just - they explode? Really? What did you do, borrow some of Lambert’s bombs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first year Geralt took Jaskier to winter at Kaer Morhen, the season after the Queen had made her demands for a wedding, Lambert had circled Jaskier like he was some sort of rare creature - not that far off the mark - and Eskel had eyed him like he was a wounded deer, and just needed one last move to finish him off. They’d both learnt that no matter how right they were, they were also very, very wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone,” Geralt growls, “said they were in a hurry, and I should make this contract fast. So I used the hastened method.” He hadn’t enjoyed it, either; explosives weren’t his domain, and they made him uncomfortable. And, sometimes, he misjudged shit and ended up covered in cave troll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d think they’d be less squishy, really, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier says, idly, as he picks something out of Geralt’s hair like a housewife retrieving a mouse, grimaces, then vanishes it. “Being made out of rock, and all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, some of us have studied anatomy - “ is all Geralt gets out before Jaskier is crowing over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, the mighty Geralt of Rivia and his massive library of books - “ but Geralt’s not about to be outdone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just the one book, actually,” he says,and he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier rolling his eyes at him. “I’ll get Vesemir to show it to you next winter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir, well… the old wolf had known exactly what Jaskier was, on first sight, but to Jaskier’s credit, he hadn’t tried to deceive him. He’d simply nodded, mentioned what a wonderful keep it was - because thanks and the fae didn’t mix well - and promised to pull his weight. Vesemir had simply told Jaskier that if he didn’t, they still had an old set of pure iron armour somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, I do love a good bestiary while you three pups go playfighting,” Jaskier says, pulling Geralt back to the present even as he dumps a bucket of hot water over his head. Geralt surfaces, sputtering, to see Jaskier grinning, all cheek and no spite, too-sharp teeth glittering. “But you know what I love even better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt pauses. It’s a trap, obviously, no fae would ever make anything that easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your lute,” he says, at last, and it’s worth being wrong just to watch Jaskier laugh, the way sunlight dances on his skin, brighter even than his own magic, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners because someone once told the fae about laughter lines. The way the column of his throat is bared, and Geralt can see the chain of his wolf medallion. That, he traded after their last visit to the fae. He does not know what Jaskier’s mother will make of him being bound so obviously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, silly wolf,” Jaskier beams, so glorious a vision that Geralt believes for a moment that he has been bespelled by this wily creature. “What I love the most is not having to explain to my mother why we’re late!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, Geralt’s bath water goes cold - not ice cold, Jaskier’s not cruel except by nature, but chilly enough - and he yelps, glaring at the damn faerie he’s somehow allowed to worm his way into his life and his Path. He stands, growling, and watches the hunger in Jaskier’s eyes as he takes in all of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re late anyway, but the Queen takes one look between them, spotting the bright bruise on Geralt’s throat and the besotted look in Jaskier’s eyes, and doesn’t ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For all he tries to stay calm and not show his fear when they’re in the knowe, Geralt can feel the tendrils of magic all against his skin, making his battle instincts confused. Fuck knows what he’ll do if they actually get attacked, although when they’re under the earth, Jaskier has more chance of sensing someone’s intent before he does. It’s oddly disquieting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like a wolf in a rabbit burrow,” Jaskier says, conversationally, as he leads them to the guest rooms his mother has set aside for them. “You know we’re going to my childhood bedroom, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It had crossed my mind,” Geralt mutters, not wanting to admit how right the bard is about how he’s unsuited for these close quarters, drenched in magic. “Why, wanted to show me your etchings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier giggles, catching Geralt’s hand with his own and holding it, easy and carefree in a way they’re careful not to be in the lands of men. He companionably bumps their shoulders together, too, and Geralt lets the touch linger. He likes being close to Jaskier, even when he’s starting to shimmer and change, the knowe bringing out his less human traits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, darling, I thought you’d never ask,” the bard trills, waving a hand. What Geralt had seen only as another section of woven willow wall unravels itself, the living branches moving and shifting, until there’s a blue door in front of them. “Well, handsome sir, do come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Said the spider to the fly,” Geralt says, drily, but he follows Jaskier through the door, and into… “You never said these were your royal chambers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grins at the opulence, heading to another door and flinging it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, but this way, we get a whole bathing pool to ourselves, my wolf,” he says, waggling his eyebrows so furiously that they look like a pair of mating caterpillars. One day, Geralt is going to tell him that looks ridiculous, but not yet. He might wait another fifty years or so. “Don’t you want to ravish me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In truth, both of them know Geralt needs to wash the scent of the human world from his skin, needs to smell wholly like Jaskier’s, or other fae may try to trick or tempt him. And Geralt’s usual reaction, which is to cut off a head, would be a rather undiplomatic way of dealing with things. Vesemir always taught him to be polite in someone else’s home, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I suppose I could make the sacrifice,” Geralt says, starting to shed the linen shirt he wears and the leather trousers, and smirks as he hears Jaskier sputter at the comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a terrible lover, and you’re going to make a terrible husband, and your one sole redeeming feature is that you’re hung like the most gifted stallion alive,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes, but stripping off nonetheless. “Catch me showing you a nice time when you can’t even be properly grateful - hey!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Geralt scoops him up, Jaskier’s still wearing his breeches, shrieking as Geralt holds him above the steaming bath water, protesting about his silks and the fact his boots are still on, and Geralt smiles, and drops him in anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s worth the scream, the invective about his parentage and two hot, wet boots flung at his head to hear Jaskier laugh, call him a bastard, and relax into the water. They have to be present for court proceedings later, and they both know it’s going to be a trial. For this moment, Geralt can make his lover laugh, kiss him breathless, and keep him occupied. Let fae politics be what they will - when it’s just the two of them, there’s no need to concern themselves with that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt hates the court. He hates human court, so it’s not exactly surprising that he hates fae court even more, because the backstabbing is a little more literal. But that’s not really what’s bothering him - no, that would be down to the spidersilk shirt that only buttons halfway, leaving most of his chest bare, and the leathers tailored for a man just half an inch smaller than Geralt. Jaskier leers at him and says it’s perfect, but then, he’s wearing deerskin breeches so tight that they almost look like his skin. Actually, Geralt isn’t sure they’re not, but it wouldn’t be polite to ask, and he’s always been trained to be polite to the fae. Sure, it’s Jaskier, and he could probably get away with it, but this close to the Queen? Not worth the risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to put on… anything else?” Geralt asks, eyes roaming Jaskier’s chest, his medallion sitting proud in the centre, and the livid bruises he left in the bath. “Seems a bit scandalous. And where are my shoes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shoes at courts,” Jaskier says, with a tiny wince, like he knows Geralt is going to hate that. “No weapons, either, and I need to show that we’re… involved, so the shirt stays off. Don’t worry, they expect you to be a handsy brute, so you can touch whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grumbles under his breath that he’s not an exhibitionist, which is a damn lie, and he just hopes Jaskier isn’t going to call him on it. He keeps the grumble up as Jaskier leads him down the hall, the ground surprisingly soft under his bare feet, and doesn’t that just make him feel naked. The way his shirt seems to be constantly one wrong move away from sliding off his whole body doesn’t help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just remember,” Jaskier says, as they pause outside a large golden door that appears to be woven from Jaskier’s namesake, “that most people here aren’t going to look human, not even a little, and staring might… upset them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was taught manners,” Geralt says, drily, but lets his bard hold his hand and squeeze, pretending it doesn’t make him feel a little better. “I know how courts are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time we went to a court, Geralt, you started a fight with the queen and finished the night with a child of surprise, so forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced,” Jaskier says, but he’s smiling as he does so. “Alright. And if anyone touches you, just, uh, remind them who you belong to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woof,” Geralt says, flatly, and lets his eyes gleam at the laugh that draws out of Jaskier, before they step into the court proper, and Geralt’s dark-adjusted eyes realise just what the numbers of a fae court are. Anywhere else, this would be an army.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Witcher, I see you finally managed to stop pawing my son and allow him to visit,” Jaskier’s mother says, with a twinkle in her eye that Jaskier also gets when he’s teasing Geralt. “Buttercup, it’s lovely to have you back with us - come, sit by my side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a small throne to the side of the dais the queen’s throne is on, and no other seat. It takes Geralt a moment to remember that he needs to bow, and does so, stiffly, as Jaskier sinks into a curtsey, then skips over to the throne and settles into it, dragging Geralt with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your consort can sit at your feet,” the Queen says, airily, and Geralt looks to her feet, where something akin to a hellhound is settled, a chain keeping it tethered to the dais.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that’s your father,” Geralt says, as he settles warily at Jaskier’s feet, keeping his voice incredibly low, “then I think we need a better introduction, and you might have to draw me a diagram of your parentage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bites his lip to keep from snickering at the comment, sharp teeth biting into skin and allowing a little blood to drip down his chin. Geralt aches to lick it away, but this is court, there are protocols, there are - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To all who gather here, those who listen, those who scream, I give to you, Royal Successor, Buttercup, and his consort, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher,” Jaskier’s mother intones, even as Geralt settles at Jaskier’s feet. When one of Jaskier’s hands winds into his hair - a leash, just without so many words - and nails far closer to claws scrape over his scalp, he lets himself purr, just a little. “Now, I know there are those who have objections, and I encourage you to bring them to the floor here and now, or stay silent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt lets his half-closed eyes glance over the amassed fae. Near the front is something like a horse, but its enormous head is covered in eyes - twelve or, no, thirteen, because of course it’s thirteen - and it has more arms than anything could possibly need. It might be leering at him, but it’s difficult to tell with something that looks that inhuman. That could just be the expression it normally wears. But that’s almost normal compared to some of the things at the feasting tables, and that’s without Geralt looking up, where he can hear leathery wings rustling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A Witcher is an animal,” a voice says, and the creature that steps forward looks like the skinniest vampire Geralt’s ever seen, all ribs, tears in its wings, and fire in its eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liort, of the Bain Sidhe, the floor is yours,” the queen says, with a wave of her hand, even as Jaskier’s hand tightens in Geralt’s hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Either he is too human to be part of our court and give our Successor a strong litter,” Liort says, and Geralt shoots a look to Jaskier that says they’ll be discussing ‘litter’ if they get out of this alive, “or he is too much an animal to be allowed to breed with our lovely Buttercup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a rich, dark snarl, and it takes Geralt a moment to realise it’s coming from Jaskier, which would be hilarious at any other time. As it is, it just makes the hair at the back of Geralt’s neck stand up and drives a shiver down his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe I get to say who or what is allowed to sire my litters,” Jaskier says, sharply, still petting Geralt’s hair. “Or, indeed, if I am to have any at all. Not a third rate baron who hasn’t been above ground in over a century, and whose only qualifications for judgement are being unable to keep his nose out of anyone else’s business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt loves to hear Jaskier cut someone down with just words, especially in defence of him, but until now, he’s never heard this sort of threat in Jaskier’s voice, as if he’s going to throw himself past Geralt and rip the Bain Sidhe to shreds. It’s flattering, and not a little arousing, and Geralt has to adjust his position, even as he catches the Queen’s eye and sees her smother a giggle. He absolutely refuses to be embarrassed, and so meets her eyes with a challenge, and watches her grin. She likes toying with her court, it seems - just like any other noble, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buttercup has spoken,” the Queen says, dismissively. “Take your seat, Liort, you’re too old for my child anyhow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pulls Geralt into a kiss, all sharp teeth and biting possessiveness, and Geralt would be lying if he said it didn’t make wearing the blasted leather trousers a bit more of a torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, we shall set a date for you to be wed,” The Queen continues, and Jaskier bites through Geralt’s lip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once the blood is cleaned up, Geralt waving off the offer of healing spells, already healing on his own, and the Queen has stopped laughing at them both, Geralt has given up on court propriety and taken Jaskier’s seat, allowing his fae lover to use him as a seat. Jaskier is draped over him carelessly, looking effortlessly smug, and once again, Geralt is reminded that cats and the fae have much in common.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother, we discussed this before, we have many decades in which to marry,” Jaskier says, stubborn to the last. Geralt doesn’t quite know how to say he’d marry Jaskier tomorrow, or next week, or next month if he asked. “I shall not be rushed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need an alliance, then,” the Queen shoots back, and not for the first time, Geralt wonders why nobles always have to hash out their private lives in front of others. He closes his eyes, vaguely hoping that if he pretends to be a chair for long enough, they’ll treat him as one. “Your Witcher has brothers, does he not? You mentioned a Lambert before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sputters, and Geralt’s eyes fly open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, no, I don’t - “ Jaskier starts, but Geralt is faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My lady, if you brought Lambert here, he would fight you every step of the way. Not to mention that he’s not even bedded so much as a succubus before. He’d be helpless before the majesty of the fae.” He manages to keep a straight face while he says this, somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for suggesting Lambert couldn’t keep up with my voracious sexual appetite,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last winter I thought we’d have to team up to keep you satisfied,” he says, tone mild, before turning back to the Queen. But he doesn’t miss Jaskier’s choked sound, or the way he shifts, or the scent of lust that fills the air. Something to consider, then. “But Lambert is less sexually adventurous than the fae would need, in my experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Eskel, then,” the Queen says, and they hadn’t told her his name, hadn’t mentioned him, and so Geralt freezes. He could not, would not lock Eskel into a loveless marriage based on politics and scheming. Not Eskel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” he snaps, knowing even as he does so that he’s given too much away. “The alliance will be between me and Jaskier, and none other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will be done,” the Queen says, smugly, and Geralt realises he just walked into a trap with all the cunning of a newborn deer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he says, flatly, as Jaskier buries his head in his hands and shakes with laughter.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fought me a little, and September is the month where I'm the most morose, but I did my best to make it funny?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Time flows differently in the knowe, that at least, Geralt is aware of, and though he doesn’t relish being short of coin when he rises above ground once more, especially if it is closer to winter than he likes, he is at least glad of the flowing food and drink here. He’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to eat or drink here, but Jaskier hasn’t warned him against it - perhaps he can be no more bound than he already is. Whatever the case, if the leathers he’s been given weren’t too small to begin with, they will be after a few days of court food and ale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier finally manages to convince something that looks like a sea creature - Geralt could be more specific, but it’s not like he’s planning to slay this - that he’s very much not ready to take over the throne, and settles into the high-backed chair next to him, taking a slow, deep breath. Geralt extends what he fervently hopes is a chicken leg towards his bard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Food?” he asks, tone placid. He’s supposed to be a little more than a pet and a little less than a servant here, and the best thing he can do for that to seem true is keep his heart slow and his face expressionless. His mouth always quirks a little at Jaskier’s expressions, though, no matter how hard he tries. “You could have seduced me much earlier if you’d told me the benefits were this good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, but then how would I know you love me for my many charms?” Jaskier asks, and the undercurrent of wickedness makes Geralt shift a little in his seat, trying to find room in the trousers where there decidedly isn’t any. “Besides, I’ve got to make sure you keep that body I’m so fond of. Wouldn’t do to let my Witcher be anything but the perfect physical specimen, would it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could always have Lambert,” Geralt replies, tone teasing but still holding a warning for mentioning his brothers to the fae. “I hear he has many desirable qualities.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I find any,” Jaskier says, with a smirk, “then I’ll let you know. But for now, I prefer my Witcher, who is so forgiving of my errors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt lets it go. He’s made his point, and knows that no matter how disinterested those around them seem, he can’t be certain no one is listening in. Besides, Lambert would seem less attractive to the fae than calm, steady Eskel, who Jaskier hadn’t mentioned. Geralt makes a point to tell Vesemir to strengthen their wards this winter, just in case. He doesn’t want to be responsible for his brother being kidnapped. Even less, that his mentor could blame Jaskier for the loss of yet another Wolf Witcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” he says, in lieu of anything more pointed, and lets his mouth quirk up a little as Jaskier’s hand settles onto his thigh. “Staking your claim?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s for later,” Jaskier murmurs back, eyes half-lidded with lust. “For now, you’ve just got to be patient.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt growls a little, and gets a gentle smack to his thigh for his cheek, but when he glances sideways, he can see his lover’s smile. He settles deeper into his chair, accepting the wait.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t know how long it’s been since they were first in Jaskier’s royal quarters, but when they stumble back in, he allows himself a groan as he stretches, shoulders and back clicking and popping from the unfamiliar sensation of being seated for too long. He aches to put in some sword practice, but supposes that would be seen as some sort of danger to the court or the knowe. He’ll have to hope he isn’t too rusty when he heads back to the Path.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I have to hear one more comment about how you’re too young for me,” Jaskier gripes, mussing his own hair before flopping face-down onto the bed and continuing his complaints into the mattress, “I shall get your cock out and show them all why I chose you instead of them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I want to be weaponised in a literal dick-waving competition,” Geralt says, placidly, shrugging off the clinging spidersilk of his shirt and popping open the buttons on his leather trousers. “Especially not considering what some of your subjects seem to have as arms and legs - any extra appendages might give me nightmares.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s teasing, because he’s seen a damn sight more terrifying monsters than he’s met at the court, albeit not ones he has to be polite to and take tea with, but Jaskier’s shoulders tense, and he rolls over, sitting up. He doesn’t look at Geralt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I’m not human enough - “ he starts, before Geralt’s mouth is on his, quieting him. He pushes back, and Geralt reluctantly lets him go. “I mean it, Geralt. There’s no such thing as fae divorce; if you decide you want out once we’re married, it’ll be too late. And I can be a tolerant partner, but no royal likes to know their lover is sneaking around behind their back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That isn’t what I meant,” Geralt soothes, stroking his hand along the deerskin breeches and feeling their surprising warmth and the way they move like skin. For a moment, he considers if Jaskier might be right, and he might be considering his bard more human than fae. “It was a bad joke, that’s all. Now get undressed and come to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Standing, Geralt shimmies his way out of the cursed over-tight leathers, a sight Jaskier would normally be making risque comments about, and gets them off his bare feet before turning back to his lover. Who hasn’t moved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jas?” he asks, carefully, voice pitched quiet enough that anyone not fae and not in the room would struggle to catch it. “You want me to sleep on the chaise?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Jaskier does look up, and takes a shaky breath. Then he gestures to his feet. Which are - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hooves,” Geralt says, stupidly. “You’ve got hooves. Tiny little hooves. Like a goat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A deer, thank you,” Jaskier snipes back, and for a second, it almost feels normal, before his face falls. “The more time I spend in the knowe, the more I accept my fae nature, the more I become… this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Less human,” Geralt realises, and then flinches at his own words.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’ve never been human, Geralt,” Jaskier says, flatly, refusing to look at him. “If you want a human lover, you don’t pick something that’s roughly the right shape and ignore reality.” His eyes are dark, pupils huge, the sliver of blue iris like the smallest hint of a crescent moon in dark sky, and Geralt can’t imagine sharing the Path with any other. “I’m only human-looking, and if you want to pretend that’s close enough, then I’ll show you out of my mother’s knowe myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly self-conscious of his nakedness, Geralt looks away and takes a slow, even breath. He’s not good with words, has never been good with words, but he’s going to marry into a family where the trickery of words is something to excel in, not stumble through. But one thing that never fails to distract Jaskier is sex. He reminds himself that it’s not a manipulation to use Jaskier’s nature against him, any more than it’s manipulation when Jaskier wears Geralt’s clothes and lets the Witcher scent the two of them combined.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is nothing and no one who comes close to you,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t have to pretend to draw lust into his voice. “But if those aren’t breeches, you’ve got to show me where you’re hiding your cock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks up, against his will, then he sits up at the edge of the bed, placing his delicate hooves on the floor with a click, before settling them apart. The order is clear, and Geralt follows it, dropping to his knees in the vee of Jaskier’s thighs, mouth already watering at the scent of him. He smells like he’s been riding hard for two days in the same clothes, and a human might find that abhorrent, but to a Witcher, the concentration of his lover’s scent is delicious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to find out?” Jaskier asks, a little less amused than he usually is when he gets to teach Geralt something new in bed. “You can touch, darling. I promise, that part of me doesn’t bite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt does huff out a laugh at that, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s inner thigh and loving the way the muscle under the softness of the fur twitches for him. It’s fawn-downy, delicate against his mouth, and as he presses his nose up higher, he finds the edge of what might be a pouch, were he to have to find a word for it, and teases it to the side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, there you are,” he murmurs, addressing Jaskier’s quickly-hardening cock as it slides out of the sheath, balls slipping out from where they seem to have been pressed up inside his body. “And here I thought I was the one on display earlier, but you were one wrong move away from spilling out in front of the whole court, weren’t you?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He feels the shudder run through Jaskier at the thought of that, of being exposed before his subjects. It’s not an entirely bad shudder, if the scent of lust pouring off his lover is any indication.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps when I take the throne,” Jaskier mutters, as if he doesn’t know Geralt can hear him. “Let you claim me on the dais in front of them all, prove my Witcher is the perfect lover for a king.”</span>
  <span></span>
    <br/>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Something in Geralt purrs at that, the satisfaction of knowing he’s what his intended wants, that he’ll marry his fae bard and keep him, no matter what shape he takes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, but if you want to trap me in the form of a wolf, I suggest we keep that to your quarters,” he replies, before sinking down on his lover’s cock, nose pressed against that soft, delicate fur that’s so different and yet so similar to Jaskier’s more usual hair, or the hair that still decorates his chest. Jaskier’s hands dig into his hair, nails just a little more like claws, but Geralt just groans into the sharp pricks of pain and swallows more aggressively, determined to show his bard what his words struggle to convey - that he doesn’t care what shape Jaskier is. As long as he’s still himself, as long as he still wants Geralt, nothing will chase his Witcher away.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Look, I tried being realistic with where Jaskier's dick goes, but I also decided I didn't need to know that much, and magic hand-waved it all fine. Deal with it. Or google deer penis and get back to me in the comments with how it should work.</p>
<p>I may be someone who previously wrote anatomically accurate centaur porn and thus found out how stallion horses masturbate, but at some point, one has to draw the line and not use the "the death of the author's shame" tag again. It's MAGIC and that's all I have to say about it.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vaguely debating making this a witchersexual Jaskier fic.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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